


morty wants to die old (but not like this)

by phadedphoque



Series: rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [7]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Bloodplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Guro, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, M/M, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23739781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phadedphoque/pseuds/phadedphoque
Summary: Right after Morty crashes the ship but he freaks out this time.please pay attention to the tags!
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Series: rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602316
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	morty wants to die old (but not like this)

“Ohhh, oh shit-- oh, oh shit”

He holds his head, in his hands, protecting the back of his neck like he’d been taught to do. It hurts like hell, he’s lucky he wore his seat belt for once.

He scrambles to get out of his seat in the car to assess the damage, chanting prayer after prayer in his head that it’s not as bad as it looks from 20 yards away. When he makes his way to Rick he hisses, sucking air through his teeth: it’s even worse. 

“No, n-no-- no, no no--”

This  _ cannot _ be happening, they had just finished what they were doing, finally on their  _ fucking _ way home-- 

He’s too tired for this shit, it’s not happening, please, just not  _ now _ . 

It’s not the first time he’s seen a dead body and not the last time, he’s sure. It’s not even the first time he’s seen RICK’S dead body but definitely the first time it's happened in an accident like this, leaving him stranded, nobody around for galaxies. 

His initial response is freedom, relief that it isn’t him but also a deep and horrible wishing that it  _ were _ . At least if it was him Rick could do something about it.

Then spite, oh! How he’s envious now! That the man, and not him, gets to experience that one moment of ecstasy. It's beyond frustrating. He’s died so many times he’s become addicted to the flavor, the rush at the end of the light. But he can never quite  _ remember _ the taste, always chasing the horizon, infuriating like how the shapes of shadows pale in comparison to the kiss of sunlight. It’s a fool's errand, chasing death like this, but he does it anyway, and gladly. What he thinks has been mistaken for loyalty, a dog conditioned to stay at Rick’s feet, is actually a deep self loathing and a craving for a high: devotion is a serial killer dressed as a lamb. He feels bad about it, tries not to let his mind go to dark places but it’s hard right now, especially now without Rick’s berating to muten the noise. His stomach hurts and he’s panicking because hell, what’s he going to do? What’s he going to say to his family? What’s he going to say to his  _ Mom _ ?

He looks at the body, so distinctly Rick though he can’t see his face yet, ass up in the air. It’s still twitching around the stalagmite he’d been impaled on, his final death throes. With a couple hefty body-slams, Morty's able to break the rock, no stronger than thick chalk, yet sharp enough to do so much damage. He’s amazed and broken at how alien some things still are in spite of all his experience, how he’s still so young in comparison to his partner.

It takes a lot of heaving and pulling but he manages to get Rick’s body face up. He glances up at his face, sees only his parted lips and the distinct line of his face before he has to look away, feeling like he’s going to be sick. He puts the body down, runs out a few yards and is; feels lavic bile come back up his esophagus. When he comes back he wipes leftover bile from the side of his mouth and steadies himself to do something. He shakes him, shakes him, shakes him, hoping to god or whatever is out there that he wakes up, can’t bear to have this be the end. It can’t be happening, it can’t. He puts his hands on Rick's neck, fingers pushing into where a pulse would be, but it occurs to him that maybe the man never had a pulse in the first place, did he even have a beating heart? 

His brow is raised in surprise, an expression he rarely ever sees on Rick, master of the universe. Now his face will remain like this permanently, his everlasting deathmask (at least until the next time he dies again). What a catlike, coy man, to have so many lives. He wonders about how many reincarnations his Rick has had, whether he’s had more since Morty’s been around. 

He wonders what it was like to die alone, the before times when Rick was on his own. What it would have been like, to die on his own and wake up alone too. He’s sure it's the same sort of existential dread that people feel when there’s nobody to come home to, nobody to greet you at the door, maybe tenfold. He wonders if Rick ever wanted someone there, if he pined for a Morty long before they ever met. It’s stupid and sentimental of him but he thinks about how they’re tied together over and over again, across the universe. He wonders what he was--is to Rick. Then he figures it doesn’t matter: parasitic, symbotic, just two sides of the same coin. 

He feels Rick’s body up for something useful only to find his flask. Morty takes an intuitive sip from it, feels the stinging in the back of his throat, before he’d even registered it’s what he’s doing the metal is at his lips and into his body. It’s sweet and it’s burning: peach schnapps was not what he was expecting. Rick must’ve been desperate; using earth gas station malt liquor as a quick fix. 

The Portal gun, That’s what he needs-- portal gun, the gun, where IS it, goddamnit--! He kind of understands the basics of it at this point, has memorized a few key coordinates in case of emergency, this situation certainly warrants. Why can’t he find it! He leaves the body again to rummage through what’s left of the ship. He comes upon the telltale tube of it, shattered. Any fragment of hope he had is gone with the solar winds on this stupid, uninhabited asteroid. 

His feelings shuffle through the full deck: one moment he’s waxing poetic and the next he freaks out. He’s so  _ tired _ of pretending to be a  _ normal boy _ when he’s not-- he just isn’t-- how could he be? Not with all the shit he’s seen, all the places he’s been, all the people he’s  _ killed _ . The weight of it all crushes his lungs, the air in them dissipating into the vacuum of space. He’s going to die, this time for real. He’s going to fuck it up big time, the one time Rick really needs him and he’s going to blow it. At least there’s something romantic about dying together like this, right? 

He’d only seen his Rick die a handful of times and most of the times it wasn’t even really  _ his _ Rick, just some sort of clone. Only once though-- the first time it’d happened and he was truly alone, no Rick to guide him at all-- he’d been scared shitless. It’d taken a week for anything to happen a Rick had come back for him. Thanks to a bet with another Rick, a rare moment of kindness, even from a Doofus Rick, that a clone was delivered to the Smith house. There hasn’t been a moment since then, until now, that Morty has ever felt so alone in the universe. 

He tries to carry the body to the ship, the chances of him fixing that only marginally better than him fixing the gun. Rick’s SO heavy, much too heavy for him, the added weight of his robotic prosthetics. He sets him back down. He feels bad but he’ll probably have to leave him here because there’s nobody else around to give him a hand. 

He gives Rick’s body another patdown, somehow hoping the second time around will provide him with more clarity. Curiosity gets the better of him as he pats his way down his corpse: just HOW MUCH of him is robotic, anyway? He can feel little parts underneath his body like this, sometimes the clang of something metallic, hollow, where it should be fleshy. 

Morty pries open his maw and looks around, sees his mechanical jaw like a puppet.

He feels his tongue, so slippery like a real one but who knows? The mimicry is always uncanny.

He moves down Rick's body, pointedly trying not to look at the gaping hole where his heart would be. His hands hover over the hole but never touch: he can feel the slight warmth that exudes from it like Rick’s booze moistened breath on the shell of his ear when he’s had one too many. He works his way down to Rick's pants and tugs them down to his knees. He takes another sip of the syrupy drink in the flask. It’s juice-like enough that he can drink it: doesn’t realize how wobbly he’s getting. 

His curiosity sours to something more morbid: of course it does. He isn’t a normal kid, he’s not normal and he isn’t really a kid anymore. Yes he’s a late-bloomer, yes he’s a bit short-for-his-age. He’d always been paranoid that he’d had his growth stunted to remain grandpa’s perfect pocket-sized little buddy. And what Morty wouldn’t be perfect if it didn’t come with it’s own set of idiosyncrasies: disconnected from his peers, confused about the way the miraculous universe works, horny about things that are a bit too bloody. It’s not his fault, really, when he’d gone through puberty in the midst of murders and maulings. It’s too easy to blame Rick for everything that’s wrong with him so he does, despite knowing he won’t change when he’s really truly 6 feet under the ground. 

He brings himself to examine the hole in Rick’s chest, avoiding it not out of disgust but out of fear of what  _ he _ might do. He can see all the way inside of him, where a heart and lungs and viscera should be but mostly it’s just blood and lots of wires he wouldn’t have an idea of how to start putting back together. The layers of skin he can see, the little bits that still make him human, remind Morty of steak, the kind Rick makes when he’s feeling like a real grandpa: the kind that grill on barbecues in the summertime. It’s such a big hole, he can see clean through to the ground. He puts his hand inside, feels the remaining heat dissipate from Rick’s body, peculiar when he’s always been so cold blooded. When he pulls it out it’s been coated in a blooden glove, rubs his fingers together and revels in the slickness. 

He rolls up the sleeves of his Grandfather’s sweater to look for the seams in his arm that separate what little real flesh he has left and the synthetic illusion. They’re nearly invisible but he knows where to look and digs his fingers into it feeling the skin rip away from his titanium bones.

He remembers all the times Rick’s executed cruelty with these very same arms: smacking Morty upside the head for his supposed stupidity, a punch in the stomach, the warm hug they shared when they first met that promised something better than this. 

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by a staticy sound, crouches back and crawls like a crab away from him, feral instincts ready to fight. 

Woah woah woah morty, it’s me! It’s holo rick! 

Morty says nothing, skeptical. The hologram is fake, cheery, unlike Rick: the funny looking mirrors they put out at carnivals. There’s a lot of people that want he and Rick dead and now that he’s gone he’s the only one left and he’s the only one who can-- 

“No morty, don’t be scared! I-I’m here to help!” 

The hologram takes a step closer to him but morty backs away on the verge of full fledged panic. His heart stretches out his ribcage, hammering.

It really is unlike any Rick he’s ever met, so much nicer. It reminds him of the way Rick is when he’s trying to get Morty to do something particularly awful.

W-what do you want?” He asks, sounding more sheepish than he’d have liked.

I’m gonna show you how to get all out of this situation-- we, we just a little side tracked! It’s ok! I just want to get you home Mooorty.” 

The hologram kneels down and pets his shoulder but morty can’t feel it, just another mimicry.

“You selfish prick! You just want me to, to, fix you! You only care about yourself. 

He waves through the hologram with a the image blurs and reforms, he slams into ricks dead body again, fists thumping against a hollow chest. 

“Woah. You really did a number on my arm huh, champ?” 

Morty’s still holding the skin he’d ripped off Rick in his hand, dark reddish black on his hands. It Almost could be mistake for blood but morty knows it’s mostly oil, apt for a man who’s so cold blooded. 

“He--he shouldn’t even be dead! He’s all fake anyway--” 

Morty beatinging on ricks dead body, he screams, uncontrollable, childish: like the kid he never got to be. 

“I know you’re upset buddy, but the sooner you do what I tell you to the sooner we can get home--”

Morty wants to tear his hair out. So pedantic of this mockery of man to treat him like he’s an idiot! And yet! The sound of his voice makes him feel safe in the deep recesses of his mind: wonders again if this is another side effect of his conditioning. 

He fights his own instinct to give in, rides the wave of his previous anger. 

“I’m SICK of doing what you want to do, what Rick wants to do! L-look where it got us! Look where he-he left me!”

He rips more of Rick apart out of anger, wishing he could do it to himself instead, frantically seeking catharsis of any sort.

  
  


“Alright slow down there, kiddo, there’s already a lot of damage to my body--”

“It’s not your body, and I can, I can do whatever I want with it! You can’t stop me--!”

Morty knows he’s being childish but he’s mad, he’s angry, livid.

His hands tremble even as he’s trying to be violent whilst tearing down his grandfather’s khakis. 

He gets them undone but they’re hard to pull off because he’s, well--

“Buddy, what are you, what are you uh,, what are you doing there?”

Morty doesn’t acknowledge the hologram as he continues to slide the pants off his body, enough to spread his legs. He rolls the body over to it’s side, left-laterally. 

He spits on his own hand, and it slickens whatever hasn’t coagulated on his blood glove, scoops up some more to slosh it over his cock. He spread’s ricks cheeks, exposes his wrinkly old taint. 

He’s almost sick again but he’s trying to prove a point-- though, manically enough, can’t quite remember what that point was in the first place. 

He can hear yelling in the background, the ghost of the man trying to stop him.

“M-m-mor-- MORTY for christ’s sakes what-what-what are you--”

The thing shakes at him and it’s persuasive to try to move him but not quite persuasive enough.

It’s hard to fuck him because he’s so immobile but he manages. He sticks his prick inside of Rick, not an easy feat when he’s not very slick. He doesn’t even know how he’s able to get hard now, disgusted at what he’s doing. He tells himself it must be the adrenaline. It’s warm inside, like the way it felt with his hand in the hole, yet it’s rapidly getting colder. He ruts into the body, the angle awkward and uncomfortable but gets the job done, his scrawny pelvis knocking into Rick’s bony ass. He grabs onto his limp hand and tries to lace their fingers together, a sad attempt at intimacy, mourning. He brings the hand to his face, rubs his skin against his lips, smoothing over the knuckles. It reminds him of the times when Rick’s three sheets to the wind and he’s nice, too nice. He pets over Morty and tells him he’s important, that he matters, that he needs his perfect little buddy by his side. It feels good though he knows it isn’t real. It’s over quickly, though it feels like it took ages and for naught: his orgasm nowhere near the catharsis he was looking for. He pulls out, looks at his blood stained cock and grimaces again, a sight nearly worse than the dead man in front of him yet some how eons more erotic. 

Holds the head of the dead man in his hands that feel so small, like when the two had first met. Rick never ceases to make him feel tiny, even from beyond the grave. He wants to spits in his face, he wants to kiss him. He holds onto his body and lies with him: he comes again, a weak release as he humps into his grandfather a few final times.

He sobs for what feels like forever, mostly feeling sorry for himself, not for his grandpa. He’s so nervous when he’s out alone in space, all the creepy-crawlies and alien-cooties that Rick warns him about become too real, he becomes much too vulnerable. But eventually when he’s all cried out he has to think of a plan of action in his own Morty way. He pleads with holo Rick to help him because once again he’s the only one who can do anything, appeals to his sensibilities as an egotistical Rick. He begs him for forgiveness, grovelling at his feet. 

“P-please please  _ please _ delete the memory, t-t-tell me how to f-fix this”

And they fix it eventually, somehow. Because Rick will never really be dead, and when he is the ghost of him will haunt the lives he’s ruined for eras to come. Holo-Rick is programmed to relay all of the information back to his organic Rick body but like any Rick he knows how to override something like that relatively easily. He doesn’t know if it’s in his empathetic code but he cuts the kid some slack before going offline again and erases the first 30 minutes of his footage. He knows there’s a certain type of fucked up Rick that would be pleased that Morty did this, honed his anger to something so sharp and virile. He wonders if his Rick would be the type. 


End file.
